


The Sixth Stage of Grief

by Poetry



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Experienced/Inexperienced, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Season/Series 04, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 20:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18038897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetry/pseuds/Poetry
Summary: "Oh my God, you're sad-horny," Margo muttered. "You're just like him." Fen's face and neck went red-hot, and Margo gave herself three seconds to decide whether she was into it or not.Yeah, okay, the three seconds were over. She was into it.





	The Sixth Stage of Grief

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by 4.07 "The Side Effect" and the week's challenge from @themagiciansreccenter to write a fic about Fen. The fic is set somewhere in the span of 4.05 "Escape From the Happy Place" and 4.06 "A Timeline and Place."

“I miss the stupid way he held his steak knife at dinner,” Fen slurred into Margo’s shoulder, drunk on tears and half a bottle of absolutely unspeakable Fillorian liquor. She made a vague gesture like a troll trying to use a hammer. “I miss his hair – and his makeup – they’d stay in place even after a day’s ride – ”

A laugh spilled out of Margo. She could hold her liquor better than Fen, in the same way a lake holds more water than a kiddie pool, but sparkly moonberry moonshine, or whatever the hell it was, had her loose and numb enough to deal with Fen’s sad bullshit on top of her own. “Did you ever _see_ him after a day of _riding_? His hair looks – looked like a volcano and his eyeliner got down to like – ” Margo batted a hand at Fen’s chin.

“What do you mean? Of course I – _oh._ ” Fen looked up at Margo with huge watery cow eyes. “ _Riding._ You mean you…”

Margo smirked. “Our El always loved an audience. Especially when it was me. He said I give ‘colorful commentary and art direction.’”

Fen clutched at Margo’s arm. She was already leaning on her to keep from melting to the stone floor in a grief puddle, how much more grabby did she need to get? “Like what? What was it like?”

“Oh, honey.” Margo petted her hair. “It’s too bad El never got to go through with his wedding to Idri. He’s so much more fun in bed when there’s a dick he can suck on. It’s like a pacifier. Keeps him from crying. Kept him. Whatever.”

“You still haven’t told me what it was _like_ ,” Fen whispered, tears rolling silently from her big pleading eyes. She clutched at Margo harder. Good grief, she felt like a knight with a distressed damsel. Or a romance novel cover –

“Oh my God, you’re sad-horny,” Margo muttered. “You’re just like him.” Fen’s face and neck went red-hot, and Margo gave herself three seconds to decide whether she was into it or not. On the one hand, Margo had had sloppy seconds from Eliot way too many times, and if she looked at this situation from the dispassionate, truth-telling stare of her fairy eye, she could see it was a pity fuck. On the other hand, Fen had been a virgin when she married Eliot, and there was something kind of sexy about giving a beautiful woman the first fuck of her life from someone who could appreciate her girl-next-door hotness.

If Eliot were hanging around the castle as a voyeuristic ghost the way Penny had, he’d tell Margo to stop being depressed over his fine dead ass and give Fen a good lay. Yeah, okay, the three seconds were over. She was into it.

“Okay, sweetcheeks,” Margo said. “Art direction. You’re gonna lay back in my lap, right here in the light from all these ridiculous lanterns El put up. All languid-like. _There._ ” Margo propped herself up on the pillows at the headboard and spread her legs so Fen could lean into her, catching the glittering lights from the lanterns like water under starlight. Fen’s weight was warm on Margo’s tits, belly, and thighs. “’Kay, Fen. I’m the director, but it’s your show. Who’s riding Eliot today? Fair warning, if you say Tick, I am kicking you off this bed and possibly this dimension.”

“Idri’s handsome,” Fen said, squirming a little in the V of Margo’s legs. “I would have been happy to welcome him into our marriage.”

“I’m sure you would,” Margo said drily. Eliot had always pissed and moaned about how horny his wife was, which, boo fucking hoo, as far as Margo had been concerned, but he turned out to have a point. At least it was making _Margo’s_ shitty day a little brighter. “Okay, El, let’s show him what you got.” She stripped away the layers of Fen’s outfit with all the practice dealing with Fillorian fashion had given her. And underneath it all was – a lacy balconette? “Holy shit, when did you get Earth underwear?”

“I heard your complaints about stays and corsets, and thought I’d try alternatives while I was in New York,” Fen said. “You’re right, they’re so much more comfortable.”

“You dragged Todd and Fray into a Victoria’s Secret?” Margo slouched forward and rested her chin on Fen’s head as she laughed. “ _God_ , I should have been a fly on that wall.” She reached down and ninjaed off the bra with all the practice and determination of a woman who had systematically slept her way through every Psychic girl at Brakebills who had a taste for pussy, with significant wingman help from Eliot – none of the Psychic girls ever forgave either of them for the psychological wreckage. Margo said in Fen’s ear, “Why don’t we show Idri how hot you get when your nipples get pinched,” and reached down.

Fen thrust her chest up into Margo’s hands, eyes closed. Margo rolled her nipples between thumb and forefinger, then pinched, watching them get red and stiff against the glittery white of Fen’s bare skin in the lanterns. She didn’t want to think about whatever was going on behind Fen’s eyelids. She wanted to bask in the moment, maybe imagine Eliot’s ghost smiling fondly at the scene, or one of the servants coming in and being all scandalized at her for fucking the late king’s wife. Let them be scandalized. Margo didn’t give a shit.

“Now we’re gonna get Idri ready for the ride of his life,” Margo murmured in Fen’s ear. “You’re gonna have to lick him open first. He’s gonna come right over here on all fours, and back his ass right up into your face. You’re a total slut for eating guys out, so you know exactly what to do.” Fen gasped and wriggled against Margo like an eel, which rubbed up _real_ nice on Margo’s nipples through the layers of her dress and bra. Margo shoved her hand up in Fen’s face, got her sucking on the fingers and swirling her tongue around the palm, licking into the webs between her fingers like she was opening up an asshole or a pussy. Fuck her, but Fen was eager to learn. It was a good thing Margo was into playing teacher.

“You think he’s ready for your cock, El?” Margo purred. “It’s always a bit of a stretch with you.” He’d always been so vain about it, too, manscaping within an inch of his life to show off the equipment. She looked down at Fen and tried not to replace her sweet little curves in her mind’s eye with the long line of a freshly waxed Eliot lying on his bed at the Cottage, complaining at the top of his lungs about the itch.

Fen growled and turned her head to nip at Margo’s neck. Margo yelped and grinned. At least she wasn’t the only one left in this shithole grief spiral of a castle who had some fighting spirit. “Oh, he’s ready all right,” Fen said, spreading her legs, and fuck, fuck, there had to be somebody around here who could still feel good, let go, and blank out, and right now it sure as hell wasn’t Margo, so she took her spit-shiny hand down and down and cupped it in a tight, slick grind on Fen’s pussy. Fen gasped and shrieked a little and ground her ass back into Margo.

Margo pressed as hard as she could. “Bit of a squeeze, huh? But so good.” She clenched and rolled her hand, felt Fen thrust her hips down into it. Fen’s closed eyes overflowed with tears, and she bit down on whatever words or names tried to spill out of her mouth, which, thank fuck for that. Margo wasn’t here to be an Eliot replacement, not for anybody, not when she knew damn well she couldn’t be. Margo was not a goddamn substitute for any man in any universe, and neither was Fen. She deserved so much better than that.

“You gonna come for your king?” Margo said, low and silky.

Fen was really crying now, sobbing, but still grinding herself desperate against Margo’s hand. Maybe this was the sixth stage of grief, somewhere between depression and acceptance: fucking out your feelings. “I – I don’t know – there’s too much –”

“Forget all that _bullshit_ , Fen,” Margo ground out through her teeth, her mouth suddenly full of poison she had to spit out. “You are not in your stupid giant royal bed with Eliot and Idri, you are in here getting fucked by _me_ , your High King, _Margo_. Will you come for me or _not_?”

Fen screamed like she was dying and gripped her thighs around Margo’s wrist, thrashing out an orgasm that might have also been some kind of seizure of grief and pain. When Margo got her hand free, she wiped the slick off on Fen’s tits. It didn’t even feel like sex anymore, but like some kind of ritual pact Quentin would have read about in a book and made her perform to seal a royal deal with Fen not to kill each other over Eliot’s death or some stupid crap like that. Fen groaned and rolled over, so she looked up at Margo from between her legs. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Margo said, in a voice that was too delicate, too fragile for the world-shattering feelings in her chest right now.

“I shouldn’t have made that about Eliot,” Fen said. “It’s about you.” She leaned up and kissed Margo softly on the mouth. “You’re a good King. And you’re not doing it alone. Even if he’s gone.”

“Yeah,” Margo said, voice shaking. “Like you gave him such great royal advice while you were pining after your fake daughter or changing diapers on a log.”

Fen wrapped her dress around her like a robe and sniffed. “I know you don’t mean that. But if you ever think of saying something like that to me again – especially after you just fucked me – don’t forget I’m a knife-maker’s daughter.” She showed the tiniest glitter of a knife tip from a fold of her skirts, and whisked away to the castle’s pathetic excuse for a bathroom.

Margo slid to the cold stone floor, leaning back against the bed for support. “Respect,” she whispered to herself. “Keep _that_ image burned into your brain, High King Dumbass.” And reached for the bottle of moonshine again.


End file.
